Perussi
by Lueminut
Summary: Contest Entry- to which Misa shakes, Teru weeps, Light hopes, and Lawliet wonders.


**A/N:** For Zena Silverwing's CDNC. Inspiration (or perhaps, initial feel) from Skillet's 'My Obsession'. Not my usual type of music, but not bad.  
_The song isn't owned by me, nor is it owned by Zena. Woop-dee-do._  
The theory was warped to fit multiple characters, and ultimately ended with three fragments of an (obsessive) quad-pointed ray.  
Alternate Universe. Strong T, mild M. Best seen in half-width- enjoy and critique.

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**Perussi**, to burn up, inflame, gall, chafe, _consume_.

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When Light takes his usual route, he is only halted by the habitual phone call.

'It's only 22:00,' he thinks heartily, and his smile is as unwavering as the hand clutched to his heart. His _keitai _feeds him news on the impending dangers of the outside world, but Light is an intelligent young man and catalogues them by the order of priority. First comes his dinner, and the last is suspense. On a good day, his route is followed perfectly.

He drops by the closest restaurant for an exuberant meal, then makes a note to gather his mother's dry-cleaning. His planner is poised delicately on his right palm, and today he's dithering between volitional lessons and a well-awaited concert with his closest classmates. Then, his _keitai_ rings, and it _rings_, so Light will keep his mind on track, and note to his beloved family that he's coming home. His Sayu cries out in excitement, and his smile is wholly genuine.

This intimate moment is shared on the public route, and others catch Light's smile as it bends, as it glitters and flutters against society's lips and kisses the breath from its cautiously-constructed mono-lung.

But when he takes his usual route, this route intersects the one of a systematic psychiatrist, who catches the smile with his own teeth, and his tongue tastes the smile with fervor. At appearance, the handsome man is being polite, and he murmurs a soft '_konbanwa_' to his fellow walker. And Light, so very mannerly, he smiles at this man as well, murmuring '_konbanwa_' and '_dewa mata_' in the same subdued breath. This share of the same breath shakes the man to his core, and Light is once more browsing through his selected plans.

Light, he knows not that his steps are counted by the man, and that he is 2,201 steps away from his doorstep.

Mikami Teru's smile falters once the young man hustles from sight, and he allows his body that pathetic wavering for precisely 32 seconds. Slowly, his fingertips delve into his coat, and the buttons begin to crush his chest under pressure. He conceals this performance perfectly, but his insides are burning with a sick desire to touch the child, to kiss, wholly and utterly _consume_ the child. If Yagami Light was a _deus_, Teru would be his most-devout worshiper.

His lips are plump, but homespun as his tongue traces them with care- then his grip becomes light, _ever-so-slight_, on his briefcase. Slowly, Teru continues the route to his own plans, his pleasant girlfriend, and the order of his next appointments.

(In moments of weakness, he worships the air Light breathes, and attempts to swallow the air he expels.)

* * *

Teru has awoken with a start. His eyes dart across the expanse of his sheet, the silhouette of his girlfriend's hip, and the exposed line of a milky shoulder. He wants to reach out, touch her and feel her warmth, but he finds that he cannot. He realises that between exposing his infidelity and chilling his bones with sub-zero temperature, he would much rather remain cold.

One eye opens, then another, and she's smiling like everything is alright in the world. It isn't, and Teru responds accordingly. Her gaze is soft then, offended, and her pretty palm flashes to grasp his shoulder. She asks what the matter is, and Teru is telling her, the world, himself, that it's nothing.

Amane Misa is a young model, devoid of college, but she isn't stupid. Her eyes are not rose-tinted, and therefore are dreadfully-perceptive. Having voiced her concern once, she repeats, and her body rises to shelter her boyfriend in a protective shadow.

"You've been having nightmares," Misa murmurs, and murmurs timidly. Her creamy hair has fanned her face, sheltered Teru from the slight tremble of her plush lips. He sighs, almost ignoring her inquiry, because he knew more-so than anyone that they were not nightmares, but dreams filled with light. With _Light_.

He chokes back an apology, and falters to hide from her questions. "You're silly," He continues with struggling force, and rises his body to bravely mold into hers. When Misa accepts the embrace, her gaze lowers, and her mouth is trembling again. She knew, moreso than anyone, that Teru was only affectionate under guilt. The thoughts of a devout girlfriend begin to overwhelm her mind, like the fevered waves of a maelstrom, because infidelity was the first to come to mind.

(For a moment, she considers what the mistress looks like. Perhaps a convenient beauty, with lacquered hair and eyes like black pearls. Teru always preferred a curve to touch, and she thumbs her own nightshirt with discomfort. Her face was full, but her body was angular, with jutting hips from the countless diets. She regrets not having finished that hamburger from lunch because her stomach lurches with the groan of pleasing her partner.)

As they touch, Teru feels sickened with himself. He's touching silvery strands, smoothing them behind a delicate, pink ear- when the locks darken in his imagination, from silver to gold. The exuberant lashes of his Misa shorten charmingly to amber flicks, and the wide blue eyes slit into demure, delectable hazelnut. Those tinted lips are powdered now, in that boyish way that refuses moisture, and her cheekbones heighten to chisel her features delicately. She isn't his Misa in Teru's mind, but his sweet, youthful Light; the thought both disgusts him and pleases him at once. His manner is slow, his movements careful, but he mouths her lips with a slow, intense kiss.

(She's wriggling, momentarily ignoring her Teru's dilemma, and Teru knows now to smile, and clash his lips against her tender neck. Then he imagines, for only a moment, that the neck was less milky, and more honey.)

When they part, Misa knows the kiss is not for her, but for his lacquered mistress. His body remains stationary, but her boyfriend is elsewhere, tumbling between the scented sheets of a darker-haired woman, sliding his hands across supple breasts, a sculpted hip, a quivering thigh. She realises the woman is in their bed, in Teru's hunger, his _demise_. And thus, she removes herself from bed, tying her hair with solemn concentration, and leaves the lustful man to his own fantasies.

When Teru comes to, the room is cast in the glow of dawn. His hand is coated in semen, his eyes coated in tears. Once more, he's crying for light, his Light, his Misa, and his sanity. He recognises the youth as his only infatuation, and the sun has _blinded_ him from his shame.

* * *

"I'm not boring you, am I?"

From one as analytical as L. Lawliet, this question appears entirely from the left field. As Light scribbles a textbook equation, the mouthed pen-cap falls from his lips- ungracefully and not-by-any-means attractive. The teen watches silently, because the novelist is never predictable, and deems the question as harmless. "You're not," Light murmurs susurrantly, finally, with a meek breath that refuses his usual confidence. Lawliet, in his entirety, is never boring- in fact, Light enjoys the variance of his days with the man, and thanks himself for visiting the library often.

Even assured by his companion, Lawliet doesn't appear to rest. He thumbs his mouth coarsely (a little stupidly, but Light finds himself smiling at the childish display) and his sigh is bass to his baritone. With anyone else, Light is embarrassed to associate with one who suggests oneself to be so sloppy; His family has taught him to be mannerly, but not tolerant. However, even if Lawliet is performing jungle-gym tactics on the afternoon train, Light is silently-entranced by the abnormal curve of his back, and how his ashen jaw shines blue bright, alien and wholly beautiful.

The teenager is ashamed, and knots envelop his stomach with crushing force. "L," He forces out with a slipshod technique, the frown on his lips wavering. "Do you... still see Kiyomi-san?", and this causes the man to face him, peering through with wide, (haunting)reflective eyes. "Takada Kiyomi-san asked me to accompany her to indulge on intricate cheesecake. While desserts tend to classify as my weakness, I believe it's unfair to attend this date in hopes of only conversation."

Light wants to vomit, he's so anxious, worried, _jealous_. His mouth shakes with the severity of his next words. "And do you, uhn, plan to elevate from conversation?" And yet he finds himself unaware of whether he could handle the answer.

Alas-

To his relief, Lawliet is frowning, shaking his face like a pretty child, and biting on his thumbnail with decision. "Please don't be offended, Light-kun. Takada Kiyomi-san is quite the conversationalist, and she's incredibly refined. Her beauty shakes me to my bones,"

(So L prefers dark-haired, refined beauties. Disappointing at its best.)

"But I don't believe she fits the criteria of my perfect mate, being a female."

Light is breathing, breathing heavily and causing his teeth to bite onto his lip. Does Lawliet really mean such a thing? Perhaps so, because now he smiles ever-so faintly, _sadly_, and the teen recognises that a sombre novelist's smile is only given genuinely. With a tug of his shawl collar (fair enactment of awkward friend, perhaps), Light is keeping his timidity thin, and he's mouthing unspoken words of confession. The sun is fading, the individuals dispersing, and the final stops are ahead- not yet, Light thinks, because it means Lawliet leaves his world, and back into his mystery.

Lawliet is wondering what his next piece of literature will include, and ponders in his perched-owl position. Light would naturally fight for the man's attention (or at least reprimand his posture, inquire about his attention-deficit tendencies,_ anything_), but that thin, wiry palm is over his own (accident?) and the golden-haired teen is crumbling perfectly.

(In inner thought, Lawliet is tracing a piece with his fingernail, deciding on its worth. His smile widens.)


End file.
